


Loopholes and Technichalities

by ValiantBarnes (Cimila)



Category: Clash of the Titans (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/pseuds/ValiantBarnes
Summary: If you die past the river Styx, die in the realm of the dead, things get... complicated. Complicated enough it's a bureaucratic nightmare. Complicated enough for - loopholes.Perseus left six friends dead in the Underworld; if he can get one back, why not the others?
Relationships: Draco/Perseus, Eusebios/Ixas
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Loopholes and Technichalities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bakcheia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakcheia/gifts).



> Re-watching this film to write this gifts, I had many thoughts. Loudest: THAT RECONCILIATION BETWEEN ZEUS AND PERSEUS???? BULL _SHIT_. I was and still am angry about it. Secondly, I gotta say, I walked out with the biggest hard on for Draco/Perseus. That has definitely made it into the story. I’m not even barely sorry. But there are?? no fics for them?? be the change you want to see in the world, I guess. 
> 
> All of which to say, Greetings and Happy Yule, dear fucko! I hope you enjoy this fic :)

“All I’m saying is,” Ixas says, as they climb yet another gods forsaken staircase, “If you have to be dead to enter Hades, then what happens when you die there? Are you twice dead? Impossible! So-”

“If I have to listen to another minute of your gods damned rambling, I will kill you a third time myself!” Solon says, climbing the stairs behind them, and Eusebios tries to hide his smile by looking away, but Ixas knocks him in the shoulder anyway. As though pretending to find something extremely interesting has ever hid Eusebios’s smile from them. From him. 

“I just think it’s illogical not to consider all the options!” Ixas continues, almost walking into Draco’s stationary back. Both he and Eusebios lean around Draco to see what has made him pause.

The top of their staircase, and… the start of  _ another _ fucking staircase. 

“Oh bloody fuck,” Solon grumbles, and Shiek Suileman makes a sound that Ixas believes means something roughly the same.

At least there’s a platform for them to rest on. Finally. It’s just been stairs, stairs, stairs, ever since Medusa’s lair. Ever since they woke up, for lack of a better term, in Medusa’s lair. Sans Medusa, sans Perseus. Just the five of them, finding each other after a ridiculous amount of back and forth shouting. The entirety of Medusa’s temple echoes like nothing Ixas has ever experienced before. 

But then, Ixas has been experiencing a lot of things he’s never experienced before. Like waking up after dying. He had only ever thought about death in the abstract. He would go to Hades, of course, pay his toll and cross the river (or wait a hundred years if nobody coughed up, the cheap bastards). He had never really thought about whether he’d be conscious of the whole situation.

But woken up he had, conscious he was - but there was no river to cross, no ferryman to pay, only Medusa’s lair. With his brothers, and the Djinn. Which had led him to this idea. If you die in Hades, die in the underworld, is that sort of… a loophole? Considering you theoretically have to be dead to enter in the first place. If your body is in the right state for it, could you not simply walk out?

No one wanted to hear his ideas about this - except Eusebios, of course. But Eusebios doesn’t count, because he listens to everyone’s ideas. He even listens to  _ Perseus _ , and gods know that’s a fucking terrible idea.

Speaking of, Ixas hopes the dumb bastard made it out alive. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man, or his corpse, or his spirit (or whatever the hell the rest of them were), so hopefully he made off with Medusa’s head and Argos is saved. If not, they’ll probably find him sooner or later, and Ixas can’t wait for the ass kicking Draco will hand out if the man failed. 

“What are you smiling about?” Solon says, pushing past to get to the landing, not at all caring for the answer.

“If we find Perseus here, how long do you think it will take Draco to-”

“We will not find him here,” Draco says, sending a sharp eyed glance at Ixas for even mentioning it. Ixas doesn’t let it bother him. Either they’re dead, or they’re dead lost, and Draco won’t do more than glare at him either way. Not so deep in enemy territory. 

They all seat themselves on convenient rubble, and rest what should be aching legs and blistered feet, from climbing what seems like endless stairs. Ixas isn’t tired, could keep walking like this for days, and he thinks the same is true of the others. Yet they rest anyway. Perhaps to keep some semblance of normalcy. Maybe Draco’s just taking the time to think up a plan. Maybe now’s the time to expound on his own plans some more!

“Ixas,” Eusebios says, settling down close enough to Ixas that their bodies are pressed together. Shoulder to hip, thighs as well. Ixas isn’t sure if one can actually feel lust while dead, but he’s sure Eusebios could inspire him to try. Shame they’re surrounded by other people. Not that Ixas has ever especially cared about that, but Eusebios has always been a shy one. Nervous. Prone to praying, and  _ staring  _ with those blue eyes of his. 

Then again, it’s Eusebios who sat so close, when usually they keep a distance between them. He’s too old to be an eromenos, now, and they’re both aware. The ideal has passed them both by, and yet they persist. What else is there to do when love stirs the heart? 

“Eusebios,” He replies, and ignores Solon rolling his eyes with enough vigour that they can literally hear it. There’s likely a smile he’s trying to keep at bay, too. Grouchy bastard thinks they don’t know he’s soft inside, or pretends that they don’t know and expects everyone to play along. Just like they all pretend not to know about how Ixas and Eusebios share a tent on the road, and the same sleeping quarters when not. Secrecy is hard to come by on the road, and in army barracks. Harder still when Ixas loves Eusebios so much he burns bright with it.

None of them would call Eusebios less of a man for this, for laying with another man as a woman does. For the praying, yes. For the nerves and hesitation, yes. For his mild manner of speech, also yes. For his love of Ixas they’ve questioned his taste. But he has proven himself in battle, time and time again, and for this he is their brother, without question. It is not uncommon in the army, and he knows everyone here has lain with a man at some point, whether as an erastus or eromenos or otherwise.

So Solon rolls his eyes when Eusebios cuddles up next to Ixas on the cold stone, somewhere deep in the Underworld, and Draco averts his eyes, but there is a warmth in both gestures. Privacy. Suileman does not seem to care, either way. He appears to be attempting to fix his staff, which they had recovered from the temple below, broken into thirds. 

“Do you really think we could live again?” Eusebios asks, fragile hope in his quiet voice, and Ixas wants to promise him the very cosmos. He also could not bear to break his heart. 

“I am alive, every moment I spend with you.” Ixas says instead, reaching a hand up to tangle it in the ends of Eusebios’ dark hair. The younger man notices the evasion, but doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he presses their lips together in a soft kiss, one which ends far too soon.

Oh, but to have a moment of privacy in Hades!

“Move out,” Draco says, breaking the moment entirely. Ixas sighs, but hauls himself up anyway. Eusebios does the same, before Ixas can extend a hand towards him, and they trudge on.

He gives them seventeen steps upwards before he says,

“So theoretically, if we gave Charon some more coins, do you think he’d-”

  
  


Io lives. She lives, and breathes, and Perseus  _ knows  _ that you cannot simply take the dead from Hades. You cannot take any of the dead from the Underworld without the permission of its god, or his wife. After everything that has happened, Perseus does not believe that Hades would give it. Not to him, not for her. Not for Zeus, especially. 

“What are you thinking?” Io asks him, her loose hair tangled by the breeze. Perseus wonders whether she is cursed by immortality, again. Still? Will she watch him die, as she watched his birth? A lone sentry through the years, watching the cruelty of gods happen again and again. 

Perseus would go mad. 

“How did he take your spirit from the Underworld?” He asks, but he is not even sure if it’s a question. He does not seek an answer, this he knows for sure. It’s the only thing that he can say, thoughts churning away within the privacy of his mind. 

“It’s a funny thing, what happens to those who die past the river Styx. We all died when we crossed it, in a way, and crossing it again would have restored us fully. Those who experience a fuller death… they wander. Not quite spirit, not quite man. They walk the paths of Hades until they fade entirely.”

She sounds melancholy, wistful. But it is absent the grief that Perseus feels deep within his heart. That which started when Draco took a bolt through his chest, and continued through every death. Solon, then Ixas and Eusebios in whichever order they fell. Perseus had not known them long, but even he could see the bond between them. The love. He does not doubt that neither survived the other for long. Sulieman, who he had known for even less time. And Draco. 

Draco with blood spilling from his mortal wound, from his mouth. 

Hard hands and a soft spoken voice. Gone, lost to Medusa and the Underworld and leaving Perseus with yet another wound on his heart. He had not even known there was anything left of it to give, after watching his family die. And yet, he had left the remnants in Medusa’s lair. Left the Underworld alone, chest made of the same stone as his dead brothers in arms. 

But for Io, who has watched untold numbers of friends and comrades and family die, the grief is distant. He can see it in her eyes. Their passing was something she had anticipated from the moment she met them. And so, even with the knowledge that they are not truly dead, she does not think to go to them. To pluck them from Hades’ grasp and restore them. Why would she? They will die, regardless. 

Perseus wonders whether she views every mortal as nothing more than a walking corpse. Wonders whether he would be any different, in her place. 

He stares out at the stretch of water before him. The same stretch where his family died, where their bodies still rest. Perseus has had enough of death. It is fortunate, then that his friends are not yet dead. Not truly. And if there is a possibility that they still live, he cannot do anything but take it.

“If they’re not quite spirit, then they’re not quite dead.” Persus says, and Io turns away from the water to look at him.

“What do you mean?” She asks, and Perseus grins at her. 

“We’re gonna get them back.” He declares, and she gives him a fond, lightly patronising look.

“Will you come with me?” Pereus asks her, standing, and she graces him with a smile. 

“Of course, Perseus.” Io accepts his outstretched hand, and he pulls her from the ground with ease. They walk to the pegasus, and Perseus is not sure if it will take them both. But if it will not, they will walk. And if Perseus cannot walk, he will crawl. He would crawl over every rock, over every inch of desert, in order to wrench his friends from death. Neither Zeus nor Hades will be able to stop him, and he will damn either bastard if they try.

  
  


The night is dark, the fire is low, and the only one of them truly asleep is Io. They are surrounded by Djinn, and not even Perseus sleeps. He’s the one who needs it most, his arm barely healed by Djinn magic that afternoon. And instead of the pretense of sleep, like Draco’s brothers, he sits upright, watching the fire. He stares at the flames as though he could find answers in them. Draco knows from experience that the flames reveal nothing but your own darkest thoughts.

He makes not a sound as he walks up to the demi-god, but Perseus does not flinch when Draco settles down beside him. He does not look away from the fire, and Draco does not draw his attention further. He is here if the other man wishes to talk, to vent whatever darkness lurks in his mind on this night. If he remains silent, then they are simply two comrades, taking in the warmth on a cold desert night. 

“My father,” Is what Perseus eventually starts with, “Was nothing but a fisherman. A good man, but simple.” He says. Draco is unsurprised that his mind lingers on his paternity. Of all the issues which have arisen since Perseus’s arrival in Argos, this new revelation must be the one which cuts the deepest.

“But no man is one thing. He was an artist, too. There was never much for him to paint but the ocean, and almost less than that for him to paint on. But he loved to do it, regardless.” The fire cracks loudly, and if any of the men around them had been asleep, that sound alone would have woken them. That none of them jerk and reach for their weapons is proof enough of what Draco already knew. 

At least now, had he not been aware before, Perseus knows they have an audience. It does not seem to deter him. Or perhaps he is simply too deep in his thoughts to care, or notice.

“When he found me, it was in a coffin, clutched to the still chest of my birth mother. There was not a single mark on the wood that could have identified us. No name or sigil. Nothing that could be kept from it, aside from myself. Nothing that he could give to his new child from the mother that him life. That gave  _ me  _ life.” Perseus shifts, the sand underneath him making the faintest sound, and Draco stays still and silent. He is closer, now. 

“But he could draw, and paint. So while he gave the babe to his wife to care for, he stared at the corpse of a drowned woman, and drew her. And once back on land, he painted her. And he showed this painting to his son, and told him of the woman who had clutched him so tenderly, even in death. That is how I grew. With three parents. Mother and Father, alive, and my first Mother, dead - and I always knew that I was loved by all.”

Perseus’s voice has gotten rough, thick with emotion. The fire dances in front of them, and the stars shine above them, and not even the Djinn lurking in the darkness around them make noise.

“A good childhood.” Draco says quietly, and from the corner of his eye he can see Perseus give a slow nod. 

“He raped her. That is how I was born. He slunk into her bedroom in the guise of another, and took what would never have been freely given. And you would have me pray to him?” His words are bitter, and Draco cannot fault him for that. This is not the issue that he had envisioned was holding Perseus back. He had thought himself to be too much of a soldier to understand the pain of Perseus’s suffering. If there is a weapon, he will use it. It matters not from which hands he took it, only that he is armed. 

Draco had thought, at the start of their journey, that Perseus is no soldier, for all he might be a warrior. He is a fisherman, still unused to the feel of solid ground beneath his feet.

But it is a different problem than he had thought. And this problem, this is something more complex by far. This is not something that Draco can coax him through with taunting words or a firm hand. He can say nothing to address the problem, although as the silence stretches on, it becomes clear that Perseus is waiting for him to speak. He speaks around it, instead.

“I would have you pray to no god,” Draco tells him, for Draco has worshipped no god since the death of his daughter, “But I would have you fight with all that you have. Does the origin of the weapon matter more than the lives you would save with it?”

Perseus has no answer to that. Draco was not expecting one. Let the other man turn his words over as they stare at the fire. Draco will do the same. Soon after, he stands to bring more wood to the fire, but when he has completed this task he seats himself by Perseus once again. If he is, perhaps, closer than before, Perseus keeps his silence.

They sit together, before the fire, until the moon has passed its zenith. Neither of them move but to breathe, and eventually they are the only two left awake. There is something almost sacred in this stolen moment, this brief serenity on their quest to best the gods at their own terrible game.

  
  


It is odd, to feel so alive when you remember dying. Remember the creep of stone across your body, feeling each portion of your skin go numb. When you wake up still thinking -  _ no, no, Eusebios keep your eyes closed my love, please _ -

It doesn’t seem real. Being able to breathe with a chest made of flesh. Being able to tangle your fingers with those of your lover, who outlived you but barely. It’s some sort of fever dream, surely. A trick of Medusa’s, maybe, or of the Underworld. He would not put it past Hades to pull something so cruel. To let the mortals who wander into his realm have one last fleeting glimpse of life, of hope, before crushing it mercilessly.

And yet Ixas walks with feet that do not tire, amongst the last of his fallen brothers. They climb stairs, leaving Medusa’s lair far below them, and never hunger. It is all Ixas can do to keep talking, to keep coming up with plans, with  _ something _ . If he stops to think about what has happened for too many moments, Ixas knows that something inside of him will break, irreparably. 

Perhaps it is that which Hades waits for. The breaking of their spirits - of his spirit, if this is nought but an illusion, and his brothers - Eusebios - are nothing more than figments of his mind. To break Ixas so far that there is nothing left of who he once was, so that he will welcome the Lethe, and the end of this cruel illusion.

But Ixas has never been the type of man to break. Many men are, and there is no shame in it. There is a strength of character to never falter, to press forward in their exact same way - until they shatter upon something insurmountable. Ixas thought Perseus like this, too. Fixed in his ways, in his convictions. Unwilling to use any of the gifts bestowed upon him, for he will live and win as a man, or die as one. Hopefully not dying before Argos is saved, but Ixas can’t do much about that now. He hopes that Perseus changed his mind. Heeded Draco, and Io who still lives to guide him, and found flexibility.

Like Ixas, who finds no shame in bending; especially not for Eusebios,  _ ha! _ Izas has always found that it is better to bend, to adapt, and survive. For what use is an unwillingness to bend if that will only lead to breaking entirely? This mentality served him well during his life, and it serves him in death, also.

He will not break for the amusement of any god. And if the warmth of Eusebios’s hand in his own is but a dream, then at least it is a good one.

  
  


There is a certain atmosphere to the Underworld that Draco thinks he has almost gotten used to. An almost taste clinging to the back of his throat. And the further they climb, the more aware of it he becomes. He ponders this atmosphere, this awareness, as they climb. Staircase after staircase, none of them seeming to lead anywhere. It is impossible to keep track of time like this, in the gloom that is neither dawn nor dusk, but neverending. They could have been walking for days or months, and Draco would not have been able to tell you which it was, except for Ixas’ constant chatter.

There is no doubt that someone would have pushed him off a staircase, had he been talking for weeks on end. If he had that damned aulos of his, Draco would have been able to measure time in minutes. It only ever takes about three before Solon cannot stand any more.

They reach another landing, with multiple staircases to choose from, and rest. Ixas and Eusebios cuddle up to each other, more careless in death than in life. Something Draco didn’t realise was possible, considering Ixas once wrote a poem for and about Eusebios, and performed it in the middle of the barracks without shame. Eusebios had been embarrassed, had blushed and tried to quiet Ixas, but they all knew the man was pleased. He’d been vocal about his pleasure that same night, though thankfully Draco slept far enough away to only know this second hand.

Solon appears to be attempting to learn the language of their Djinn companion, Sulieman. Helpful, now that they have no other translator. Amusing, if Draco is able to read the inhuman planes of Suileman’s face correctly. It gives Solon something to do other than to think of his fall. They all need something to do, other than think of their deaths, or what fate has befallen Perseus.

So he has them climb. Many of the stairs are treacherous; falling to pieces and crumbling beneath their feet. But the more they climb, the more Draco feels  _ something _ . The air around them is changing, and Draco does not think it for the better. His mind slides away from thinking too hard about it, whenever he tries, and he usually finds himself thinking of Perseus instead.

The stubborn look always on his face, except when they would sit together quietly at night. The fisherman's calluses on his hands, so different to Draco’s own. How he was soft, right through to the centre. His hardness, Draco had found since their meeting, was born of anger and pain. Perseus is like the ocean he was raised on. Capable of great harm and violence and anger, when stirred. And beautiful even then.

When they sit alone together, after everyone has bedded down for the night, his turbulent thoughts ease. He is soft, then. When he sways towards Draco, shoulders barely brushing. Laughter in his eyes when his work rough hands tug at Draco’s braids before they part for the night. To their own bedrolls.

Draco finds that he regrets it, that he did not pursue Perseus. There were chances, he thinks. Opportunities where he could have stepped closer instead of away. He did not, more focused on their quest than his own pleasures, but perhaps there could have been room for both.

Draco huffs out an aggravated breath, upon the realisation that it has happened again. He tried to think of their circumstances, of the weird distortion slowly happening, the further they climb, and instead he thinks of the demi-god who lead them here. Draco knows his own mind, and knows that these thoughts are his own. But he also knows that he has enough willpower to put such things aside, as he has done the whole journey. That he cannot now, he does not put down to allowing himself some measure of relaxation now that he is dead.

This is some form of enchantment, some thrawl, and it wants them to keep climbing. Further into the maw of whatever awaits them at the top.

“We go down.” He announces suddenly, voice sharp, and stands just as quickly. They must move before he can think too hard, before he can become distracted in his own thoughts and press them onwards, upwards, instead. It has already happened at least once before, and he will not let it happen again.

There are voiced protestations from both Ixas and Solon, while Eusebios does as he’s told, though he’s visibly confused about it. None of these things are a surprise, and neither is the fact that they all follow him down, in the end. 

They are his men, and they have already followed him to their deaths, why would they stop now?

They will go back to Medusa’s lair, and hopefully being off these stairs will allow him to focus properly.

...Maybe he’ll even allow Ixas to expound on his theories.

  
  


“We go up so many blasted stairs just to go down again,” Guess the man complaining, Ixas or Solon?

A trick question, Eusebios muses, because they have both said something along those lines in the last… hours, possibly. Maybe minutes. Time is nothing but water in the hands, now that they’re dead.

Eusebios thinks he should be much less calm about this than he is, but whenever he gets too far into his own head, Ixas is there. Tugging on his fingers, running a hand across his shoulder or back. Offering his support, and his love.

They are dead, but Eusebios knows that none of them had much hope of living through this madcap journey anyway.  _ He  _ certainly didn’t. But it would have been - it was - a good death. A man’s death.

Better than he had once thought of himself. So Eusebios does not find it too odd that he cannot find a well of grief for himself, for his friends. They are dead, but he knows they did not die in vain. Perseus has saved Argos, Eusebios knows it. He knows it deep within himself, whether that is delusion or fact is irrelevant. It is a truth to him, and Eusebios uses it to buoy his spirits when they get low.

Perseus was successful, Argos is safe. Though he is dead, Eusebios is surrounded by the people he loved in life. Even though they’re walking down the same infinite steps that they just walked up, he cannot complain too much.

He does anyway, death making him bold.

“More stairs. Death is riveting. Truly. Have we ever had such fun?” He asks, aiming the last part at Ixas, though his eyes stay on Draco. Sure enough, he receives a dull glare from the front of their party. Eusebios cannot help his laugh, and Ixas joins with him.

Such a laugh of joy, in this place of gloom and death - the afterlife is not so bad, not for Eusebios.

  
  


“So, what’s the plan, Perseus?” Io asks, as they stand at the entrance to Hades once more. Perseus nods his head, ready and willing to impart his great plan. If only he had one. The longer the silence stretches on with nothing said, the thinner Io’s lips get as she presses them together. Eventually, she whacks him on the arm, shaking her own head.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Io mutters to herself, and Perseus doesn’t have time to be offended before she continues, “I’ve watched over you since you were a boy, of course you don’t have a plan. Your first plan for the Kraken was to  _ stab it _ . Your plan for the witches was also to stab them if they didn’t comply.” She paces as she talks, voice getting louder, and Perseus is glad that the entrance to the Underworld is deserted. He feels like a child again, being scolded so.

“Did you just figure out that you can’t stab Charon to get across the river? That you can’t win your friends back by  _ stabbing them _ ?” Her voice is really more of a frustrated shout, now, and Perseus shifts in place. He can’t exactly tell her that she’s wrong, after all. Perseus works best on the fly, thinking on his feet. If Io wanted a planner, all she needs to do is follow him back to Medusa’s lair and find Draco.

Then, they can bitch about his planning skills together.

Perseus finds that he honestly is looking forward to it. The pair of them sequestered away, talking fast and quiet, glaring over at him whenever he makes too much noise. The good old days of about a week ago. 

“Okay, I have a plan.” He says, ignoring Io’s unconvinced look.

“What.” For some reason, Io doesn’t look confident when all Perseus does is to give her a grin, and mount the pegasus again. But when he holds his hand out to her, she takes it, and they fly again.

“Is that…?” Io trails off as they fly over a river that looks miniscule beneath them.

“Yep.” He says, laughing that his impulse has paid off once more. The river Styx, far below them, and now behind them. Medusa’s lair, ahead.

“What in the name of all the gods on Olympus?”

“I flew straight out. Didn’t have to barter passage from Charon again, even though you’re supposed to.”

“And do you expect all of us to fit on this horse?” Io demands, and Perseus shrugs.

“I think we can bluff our way out.”

“Think we can  _ what _ !”

Perseus thinks she sounds a little impressed, despite herself.

  
  


Medusa’s lair looks the same, unsurprisingly. Broken temple masonry, more crumbling stairs - or do these count as the first crumbling stairs they encountered? Stone, everywhere. A distinct lack of human statues. As there had been when they had awoken. Ixas personally thinks that, considering Medusa is also nowhere to be seen, her death was the catalyst for their release. The statues. Perhaps even Ixas and his friends as well.

The place is still fucking creepy, though. Even without the hissing and rattling and needing to walk around mostly blind.

“It’s like they’re tethered at the hands,” Solon bitches from behind them, and Ixas supposes that holding Eusebios’s hand does make the whole thing better. Sulieman says something in agreement, and Solon laughs. Ixas almost snaps his neck, turning to see them. They walk side by side, and Solon doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. In fact, he doesn’t even notice Ixas staring at him. Instead, he replies something that sounds like  _ yejalukemarida _ , which is absolute jibberish to Ixas.

Sulieman gives a rumble which sounds like amusement, and Ixas trips over a piece of rock he was too distracted to see. The noise draws Solon’s attention, and he gives Ixas a black look.

“Watch your feet, else that third death’ll come for you.”

“Are you… making nice with the Djinn?” Solon rolls his eyes.

“We’re dead, Ixas. No place for old grudges here. And his name’s Sulieman.” 

“I know that. I just didn’t think you did.” Solon seems to be holding back a second eye roll by sheer force of will. Ixas wisely turns around at Eusebios’ tug on his hand, and they continue to follow Draco through the ruins. 

They cannot hold hands all the time, terrain sometimes too rough for it. Or they need to make some suicidal leap between layers of cracked temple. Once suicidal jumps are now just fun, with the threat of death eliminated. Of course, Ixas isn’t being too reckless. Eusebios’s worried blue eyes following his eyes move make sure of that. 

Soon enough - of Ixas thinks it’s soon enough - they’re at the entrance to the once temple. Their exit. It’s barely noticeable, but Ixas has known Draco for years. So he sees the slight hesitation. The barely there pause before he steps across the threshold. Nothing happens apart from the crunch of Draco’s boots on rubble. No thunder, or lightning, or tricks or traps.

Just their things, still where they left them. Minus Io, of course.

Ixas breaks away from Eusebios as they all go about the routine of checking their packs. For theft, or water damage, though neither of those things is likely in the Underworld. Ixas rummages through his pack, before he finds what he’s looking for. What he wouldn’t have given to have  _ this  _ during the monotony of those fucking stairs.

Eusebios sees what is in his hands, and looks torn between laughter and warning. He doesn’t get the chance, for Ixas brings the aulos to his lips before his love can make any sound.

  
  


Perseus hears them, before he sees them. Solon shouting, Ixas’s manic laughter. And, interspersed, the sound of that fucking instrument. How many of those things does Ixas have? Maybe Perseus should team up with Solon to for a search and destroy mission.

Maybe they should just pay for Ixas to get lessons so he’s not so horrible.

The shadow of the pegasus causes them all to look skyward, weapons drawn before the space of a breathe has passed. Perseus lands, and grins at the stunned looks on the faces of his friends. In the silence that follows, the snap of an  _ aulos  _ being broken by Solon is clearly audible. Io, perched behind him on the horse, gives a small giggle, and a wave of laughter follows.

Even Draco smiles. The smallest movement of his lips, easily missable if you’re not looking close enough. Perseus is looking close enough.

No one speaks as he and Io dismount, and the Pegasus wanders away, presumably to look for something fertile to graze upon. He’s probably hungry after his long flight.

“Argos?” Draco asks, breaking the silence, and a tension Perseus hadn’t noticed leaks out o them all when he smiles.

“The city is safe, as is her princess.” A ragged cheer goes up, and soon Perseus is being pulled into a threeway hug. Ixas and Eusebios, the former patting him on the back far too hard, and the latter saying,

“I knew it! I knew you’d done it, Perseus!” When they step back, their hands tangle, and Perseus blinks. Are they-? 

Huh.

No one else looks surprised. Perseus wonders if they were always this obvious. Hopefully not, otherwise he would feel incredibly dumb. As he watches, Ixas pulls Eusebios in for a kiss passionate enough that Perseus feels his eyes go wide. He turns from them, only for his eyes to snag on Draco.

The other man doesn’t look worried or upset about two of his soldiers kissing in broad… light. Night and day aren’t quite realised concepts in the Underworld. There’s a perma-grey which allows for sight, but no sun or moon. 

Draco stares at him with such intensity that Perseus finds himself walking over, as if drawn. Or perhaps it is only his own wishes that power his feet, his own desires that make him find heat in the older mans gaze. As he walks closer, there is a thought that he should be cautious. Approach the matter of what he wants delicately. Perhaps wait until they are free of this place, and the sun can shine on them all.

Perseus ignores the cautious advice, and buries his hand in Draco’s hair when he’s in reach. Pulling the man close to him, face to face. Draco allows him, amusement in his eyes. 

“Hello Perseus,” the man says, his breath slightly cool on Perseus’s face. Across his lips.

“Hey,” He replies, before closing the scant distance between them, and kissing Draco. Two arms loop around his waist, pulling them flush, and Perseus does not melt into the other man’s arms. No matter what anyone says afterwards. He simply… lists towards him, allows the other man to support him, during this brief moment when his knees feel weak and his heart beats twice the normal pace.

“Get a room!” It’s Eusebios, not Ixas, who breaks them apart with his loud, delighted words. This close, Perseus cannot see Draco’s face clearly, but he would recognise that scowl anywhere. Eusebios laughs in response, high and clear, and Perseus cannot help his own smile. 

He kisses the scowl off Draco’s face, purely because he can.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, the language the Djinn are speaking is apparently Arabic. Solon actually says: yajealuk maridana, which google translate tells me, is Arabic for ‘makes you sick.’ يجعلك مريضا. I hope that is right! It’s in response to Sulieman saying ‘puppies in love. disgusting.’


End file.
